


It's a Love/Hate Relationship

by Multifandom_damnation



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alcohol, Beau gets hurt, Fist Fights, Gen, Heavy Drinking, THATS GREAT TOO, Yasha and Fjord and Jester are all mentioned but not really in it, a great idea, and the Yasha and Molly were in hell thing??, and the grumpy monk, i just have alot of feelings about the colourful teifling, i love the whole amnesia Mollymauk thing, like its so cool, quite a bit in a few of these
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-16 04:52:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14157165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Multifandom_damnation/pseuds/Multifandom_damnation
Summary: Molly and Beau share a love/hate relationship.They don't normally get along- hardly ever, maybe once- but when they do they do it with open hearts and arms outstretched, ready to comfort and love and forgive and keep company throughout the night or whenever you need them.But don't tell them that unless you want a broken nose and a headache for weeks.





	It's a Love/Hate Relationship

It’s a love/hate relationship that they share. They both love to hate, mostly each other.

You could see it in the way Beau cracks it at Molly for the commotion his jewellery was making, only for him to grin at her and shake his head so they rattled. How Molly pretended to take a slice at her with his sword, and Beau socked him in the jaw so he fell to the ground in a heap. How Molly raked his claw-like nails across Beau’s skin with a snarl in Infernal and a fuming hiss after she’d called him a devil.

Sometimes, their arguments get so heated, Fjord or Jester or Yasha had to stand in between them, backs to their friends and stern words to _back off_ until Molly lumbered off in search of a tavern and Beau for someone to punch.

Sometimes, when days got _really_ bad, Yasha grabbed Molly and took him to a road or a town or a hovel in search of someone who would pay for a fortune telling and a good story, Jester dragging Beau as far as she could from everyone so she could scream and hit things and threaten the lives of passer-by.

But sometimes- and only those kinds of sometimes that you miss if you blink too often- they get along like siblings, best friends who have been at each other’s side through thick and thin.

Beau thinks sometimes, that she and Molly could have been friends. Could have been partners, could have been close. And sometimes, she sees it- sees the accidental niceties they present as sincerer than a façade and realises that sometimes she and he are more friend than foe sometimes, and she doesn’t know how she feels about it.

* * *

 

She sees it in the way Molly fiddles with her coat after she comes in from the rain, pulling and tugging until she gives in and lets him adjust and wipe off the water, drying her hair and re-tying her bun, walking off with a wink.

If she follows him and asks “What the fuck are you doing?”, he just turns and shrugs, a smile on his lips. Beau wants to punch it off his face most days, with his fangs and his snark. “I’m not a child. I don’t need you to take care of me.”

Molly always sighs, stares off into the distance, and it’s one of the only time she has ever seen him without quick, sharp words. “I think… maybe you deserve someone to look after you every once in a while? I mean, it’s nice to have someone to look out for you, I think, and even though we don’t like each other, we’re in a team now and we have to, so maybe just shut the fuck up and put up with it for a little bit?”

She always grunts, and you always see the slight shock of being taken aback, the wordless repute, the startled anger. “You say that like you’d know.”

He paused, his hand on the doorknob, his horrible coat swishing around his legs from the slight breeze drifting in through the open window, and he rested his horns lightly upon the door. “I did have a family, once.” He mumbled, and Beau had to strain to hear him over the whistling wind, the cracking off wood in the fireplace and the pounding rain from outside. “And one before that, I’m sure, but the carnival was all I had for as long as I can remember, and Yasha is like a sister, but I love them, and I would die for them- and I miss them. We were close, and I miss them, I miss them a lot.”

The door opened and Molly disappeared through the old wooden frame until all Beau could see was the ends of his overcoat, nearly missing (but not quite) the mumbled “So excuse me for wanting to belong to a family again”, as the door slammed behind him, hard, shaking the window frames.

Beau sighed, took off her coat and laid it over the back of a chair to dry by the fire. She gathered her things and took off after him, swinging her staff across her back as she made her way to Molly and Fjords room.

The door was closed and when she knocked, Fjord’s polite “come in” had her cursing Molly for going somewhere she can’t talk to him, but she pushed open the door with the scraping of wood on old and worn carpet.

He was on the floor, his coat and swords neatly discarded over his bed as he laid his cards out across the floor, looked up as she walked in and quickly gathered them up, held them close to his chest. He didn’t speak, just quietly watched her shift uncomfortably from foot to foot at the thresh-hold of their inn room.

Fjord was on his bed, cleaning his falchion with a rag he’d found, also looked up as she walked in, and paused. “Is something wrong?” He put his sword aside as he swung his legs off the bed, face stern and worried in her silence. “Are you alright? Has something happened?”

Looking once at Molly again, who had curled up with his back to the wall and his cards to his chest, Beau shook her head. “Nah,” she turned to make her way out. “it’s alright. I forgot what I came here to ask. It probably wasn’t important anyway.”

As an afterthought, she shouted “Goodnight,” as she slammed the door and made her way back to her and Jester’s room to drown her sorrows in wine and stories and the sketches Jester drew of her when they were bored.

* * *

 

You’d see it in the way she stood with her back straight in an ally, nails digging into her palms as her white knuckles shook, feet apart, hatred and anger burning in her eyes.

He was bigger, much bigger than she was, a wickedly curved sword on his back and tattoos that covered as much skin as she could see, a beard that reached his belly button. He’d taken her staff, threw it on the ground behind him, and she’d have to dance around him to get it but with her sprained ankle, that was easier said than done.

She didn’t remember how she got here, backed up against the far wall of an alley, a man much larger and much stronger than herself flinging punches at her as she ducked and dodged to avoid his heavy hits. Unable to get around him, she threw her whole body into a sequence of blows, trying to back him out to the whole street, but he didn’t budge.

She felt knuckles collide with her jaw and she took a step back, tasting the blood that began to fill her mouth. Her head was spinning and her vision was fuzzy and dark, iron burning her gums. She turned her head to spit into the grass, a bright red, stark against the green and grinned at the larger man. “C’mon,” she taunted, blood staining her teeth red. “That all you got?”

With a snarl, one that pulled his lips back past his gums, Beau threw her hands up in front of her face in a last-ditch effort, waiting for the fist to rocket into her nose or her cheek or her temple, but it never seemed to hit. She opened her eyes, she hadn’t even realised she’d closed them, to see the hand stopped by another, much more colourful one. The snake tattoo seemed to swallow the hand of the much bigger man, the jewels on the purple fingers glinting in the sunlight as Molly’s nails dug into the other hand until little rivulets of blood ran down the skin.

The other man took a step away, yanking his hands out of Molly’s grip. “Who the fuck are you?” He growled, looking the ostentatious tiefling up and down.

Tilting his head and reaching his hand to his hips, Molly grinned. “Mollymauk Tealeaf, lovely to make your acquaintance. I see you’ve already met my friend so I believe we’ll be on our way.”

He spat at Molly’s feet, and Molly only raised an eyebrow. The man growled again, eyes darting between Molly and Beau. “I ‘ain’t afraid of you, freak.”

Lips twisted into a wild grin, Molly’s eyes seemed to grow with seething hatred. “Don’t worry.” He snarled, fingers twitching on his sword’s hilt. “I’ve been called worse.”

She didn’t know what he said, as she doesn’t speak Infernal, but it had the man yelping in fear with fresh blood pouring from his nose, throwing one more fist at Molly who stepped out of the way, he turned and ran down the alley. Molly pulled his swords and took some swings at him as the man sprinted away, blood soaking through his shirt in a thin line.

Putting his swords back, Molly turned back to Beau. “You alright?” She didn’t answer, too busy trying to think over the blood pounding in her ears. “Oi,” fingers snapping in her face. “She who stands with fists clenched. He’s gone. Are you alright?”

Beau didn’t answer, just pushed his hand away. “I didn’t need your help,” she mumbled, placing a hand against the wall as her ankle gave out when she took a step. “I had it under control.”

Pursing his lips, Molly stayed silent, holding his arm out for Beau to lean on while they walked. She took it. “C’mon,” he brushed hair out of her eyes. She didn’t realise, she couldn’t see out of that one anyway. “Let’s get you home to Jester.”

* * *

 

You’d see it in the way Beau goes looking for Molly, late at night, sitting alone at the bar surrounded with empty mugs and spilt drinks that made the table top sticky, nursing a glass of putrid green whiskey and a few drinks past sensible.

The bar was empty, the sane people making their way to their rooms, some passed out on tables, heads down on the wood and drooling. Molly sat with his head lolling, almost falling off the chair- cards clumsily shifting through his fingers, one occasionally slipped from his fingers and fell to the countertop where he quickly picked it up and put it back where it belonged.

Slowly making her way over, Beau dragged a chair, smelling the alcohol before she could hear the humming- soft, sad humming. There were dark stains on his shirt- too dark to be normal and too light to be blood- and the ends of his coat were dragging against the dirty, sticky floor. He didn’t look up as she dropped the chair and sat on it backwards- sitting open legged facing him, hands over the back of the chair.

The song he was humming sounded somewhat similar to the tune Desmond was playing at the circus, but this wasn’t the crisp sound of the fiddle, more a sad, jaunty, broken humming. She waited for him to acknowledge her, waited until he spoke, and when she’d waited long enough Beau reached her hand out and placed in on his shoulder. “Molly?”

He jumped as if he hadn’t seen her come, hadn’t heard her drag her chair harshly across the floorboards, hadn’t heard her sigh loudly as soon as she’d seen him. Maybe, Beau rationalises, he didn’t. He turned to face her and his breath reeked of alcohol, making Beau lean away from him. He looked surprised. “Hi,”

“Hi yourself,” she glanced at the glass that was by him, half empty and strong. She kept her voice quiet, her hands where he could see them, a soft, worried smile on her face. “What are you doing down here so late, by yourself? Wouldn’t you want to go to bed?” Trying to force him into tiredness by the power of suggestion.

He shook his head, took another shot of a noxious green like acid that spilt the corners of his mouth and seemed to glow electric, like viper poison, and he blinked hard and shook his head, his jewellery jangling. “Wanted to drink away the memories,” he laughed, slamming the glass down in a pile of other empty glasses so hard that Beau was afraid it would shatter. “And things I can’t remember, but that’s fine, I’d rather that.”

She didn’t know what he meant, but she carefully took the new glass from between Molly’s fingers, he didn’t fight as much as she expected, but she placed it on the table beside her. “What do you mean?”

“I miss Yasha,” he said so suddenly that Beau blinked, stared harder at Molly, his eyes trained on the dart board on the other side of the bar. “I miss the carnival. I miss Bo, I miss Toya, I miss the twins, I miss Orna, I miss Gustav… I miss my family. I miss having a home. I miss Yasha.”

His hands were shaking, and so was his lower lip, and Beau reached over to grab his hands. They were cold and wet, and she felt so uncomfortable, but he seemed to relax at the touch, so she didn’t let go. “Yasha will be back soon. You said it yourself, she always is.”

The scars on Molly’s skin was rough beneath her fingers, yet so exceptionally executed there was hardly much of a mark, just raised, rough skin. His eyes flickered between his hand in hers and the drinks not too far from him. “I’ve been with Yasha for as long as I can remember.” He mumbled, quiet, sad. “That’s not that long ago, but for as long as I can remember, Yasha has always been there. I just miss her when she isn’t.”

Beau sighed, chucked some coin onto the counter and hoisted Molly too his feet. “Come on,” she told him, supporting whatever weight he couldn’t hold. “Let’s get you to bed.”

* * *

 

You’d see in the way Molly watches Beau from the hard confines of the cart, eyes glued to the way she stumbles and sways in the heat. She’s been walking for hours, since dawn, and the sun is high in the sky. Using her staff as a walking stick Molly could tell she was hardly keeping herself upright.

He leant over the side of the cart, arms crossed and tail raised above his head. “Take a rest Beau,” he tells her, swatting at her hair. She doesn’t react, eyes glued ahead. “I’ll swap out. You need to rest.”

The cart wasn’t big enough for everyone, the small confines only big enough for a few, leaving Beau to walk however far it was to make camp. The skin on her feet was sticking to the soles of her shoes and peeling off in strands, blood pooling and her nails breaking into splinters. Her chest burned and her head thumped, but she had to keep walking.

Molly was talking to her but she hardly noticed, focused on the rise and fall of her chest and the distance from here to camp.

Everything looked the same, same trees, same terrain, same animals and critters that darted by and skited out of the way of the cart's wheels. Soon, Beau’s vision went blurry, the heat making the blood thumb loudly in her head and sweat beading on her face like rain.

15 miles to the closest town and Beau felt like she was inhaling glass shards, using both the moving cart and her staff as support. People were talking, she knew, but none of the words sounded like _words_ , just different volumes of vibration. When they went quiet, Beau hoped that they hadn’t fallen asleep, leaving her on watch. She wasn’t _alive_ enough to be on watch, not for the whole team, not through the dots from her vision and the thumping-ringing in her ears-

She tasted iron in her mouth, her lips cracked and dry. What time was it now? How far were they? How long had she been walking in the blazing heat? She’d have to ask Caleb; he was good with numbers. When she got her mouth back, the feeling back in her tongue and some water down her throat, she’d ask.

It might have been dark, or early morning, but she couldn’t tell. She thought about stopping, taking her hand off the edge of the cart and letting the party travel on without her. _If they really cared,_ she thought _, they wouldn’t have all fallen asleep and left me here to die in the heat all alone-_

Her hands left the cart just as another hand, sharp-nailed and firm, dug into her shoulder, yanking her up and over the side of the cart as the other person jumped out. In her haze, she knew the hand was purple, too-bright tattoos burning her eyes after hours of bleak nothingness. Her shoulder hurt from the peicing of the claws, but she was on her back, her feet, legs, muscles _still_ , eyes closing as she laid on the hard wooden slats the cart had provided.

Molly’s hand was on her shoulder, grounding her and giving her a reassuring squeeze. “Don’t think I’d forgotten about you, annoying one,” he reassured, rubbing up and down her arm. He sounded underwater, static-like. “I stayed up for watch. Get some sleep. I’ll walk the rest of the way.”

Beau closed her eyes and slept and didn’t wake up until Molly shook her awake the next day, the tavern sign looming over her, ugly and too-bright, but not as bad as Molly’s face and his too-toothy grin. “Get up,” he cackled, yanking her hair, “Or I’m going to take the best rooms and you won’t get any say in it.”

* * *

 

You see, it’s a love/hate relationship that they share. They both hate to love, but sometimes they have to.

You’d see it in the way Molly gets glared at, horns tugged and coat snatched by quick hands from mocking townsfolk, for Beau to walk close and growl, staff held too tight in her hands. Or the way Molly would watch out for Beau after a too rough night, too much alcohol and laughter and tears and memories in a flurry that leaves her stumbling to her room, staff in one hand and Molly in her other, guiding her up the stairs. Or when Beau goes down, separated from the others and Molly hisses in Infernal at the attackers until they fall on the ground dead or unconscious, standing over her, trying to stabilise her until Jester hears his screams and makes it over to save her. The way the words get stuck in Molly’s chest after a nightmare worse than normal, Yasha nowhere to be found, and Beau is the first to console and understand and not ask any of the nagging questions that are burning bight hot on the tip of her tongue

Some days they are as thick as blood and inseparable as oil, sticking close together with matching grins and matching glares. Some days, Yasha or Jester or Fjord will look at them with such utter confusion that it makes them laugh, shaking their heads.

Some days, when things are _really_ good, they volunteer to spend time together, share a night watch, scouting parties, recon. But those were really good days, and they didn’t happen very often.

On bad days, _really_ bad days, they argue and bicker and hate like old enemies, although they have only known each other a handful of weeks, they hate each other like they were born for it.

But sometimes- and only those kinds of sometimes that you miss if you blink too often- they get along like siblings, best friends who have been at each other’s side through thick and thin.


End file.
